Photo by Catalin Pop on Unsplash
Me, Earth,
The illness, a farmer
Tilling with desperate hands to plant.
More sickness? Something bountiful?
My body, the illness, holes, pieces of me in its mouth,
Rotten? Wholesome?
Both wrap themselves around its teeth.
Me, Tree, wood,
The illness, a hatchet, a drill
Who am I if my body does not exist?
Who am I if my body does exist?
Who am I?
About the Creator
Fair Exchange, No Robberies
Dark Memoirs - Index There are at least two kinds of people in the world: those who write this half-arsed kind of intro to a story that looks to separate the rare and the norm, and those who realise it's an overused framing device and don't.
By Paul Stewart6 days ago in Chapters
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